


Shooting II

by littlemiss_m



Series: HOME, a series [15]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Dad!Cor, Depression, Guns, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Panic Attacks, Trauma Recovery, although it does focus on recovery, and all the other stuff :), but the themes of depression etc are still really heavy on this, i know the tags sound bad but all the bad things are just references to past events, it's about recovery and shows how far prompto has come since the first fic, the series is promptis but noctis doesn't show up for this fic and it isn't mentioned at all, this is neither happy or sad not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-07-08 03:00:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15921446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlemiss_m/pseuds/littlemiss_m
Summary: A few years have passed since the last time Prompto picked up a gun. When he asks for a repeat, Cor agrees without a question.





	Shooting II

**Author's Note:**

> HI THIS IS ME BACK ON MY BS AGAIN sorry I know I said the series was over but I still have a couple leftover scenes banging about my brain so here we go again, I guess. I still consider the series to be over and done with but there MIGHT be one or two more fics coming up - MIGHT because the plot is all out there and none of this is actually necessary in any way.
> 
> Anyways - to people not familiar with this series, the whole thing deals with themes such as depression, self-harm, and suicidal thoughts/suicide attempts, eventually ending with Prompto working hard for recovery and succeeding. There's nothing "new" in this fic in the sense that Prompto doesn't e.g. cut himself here, but a lot of the past things are referenced.
> 
> This fic takes place after all the others I've posted in this series, in the October of the year Prompto and Noctis graduate high school.

October dawns on them the way it usually does: in the form of golden trees and crisping air. To Cor, October means the newest batch of Crownsguard trainees, all of whom he has to meet one way or another. He doesn't really train them personally these days, not unless he sees something interesting or something requiring his intervention, but he still takes the time to get to know their names and faces, if nothing else. This particular October, Gladio's slated to join the ranks of instructors and Cor challenges him to a duel in front of his first class, just to be annoying.

It's fun. Gladio's bulked up considerably in the past few years and Cor decides he likes the sound of his body slamming against the training mats. Repeatedly, highlighted by the chorus of gasped and hushed sounds of awe. Nothing better.

These days, October means many other things. Cor takes Prompto to the cemetery, shows him the route through countless graves. He leaves a red carnation next to each friend he passes, but Prompto carries a lone grave candle and a box of matches. It's a repeat of their visit the previous year, and like then, they only stay a moment, long enough for Prompto to whisper a _happy birthday, mom_ , into the wind rustling their hairs.

* * *

When the question comes, it startles Cor. At the same time, he can see that it's been on Prompto's mind for a while, now, nagging and bothering him endlessly. In the stunned silence that follows, Cor thinks back to that blood-red day in April, some four years ago now, and the offers he's made since. Prompto likes working out with Gladio, occasionally with Ignis and Noctis, but he's refused every single lesson that deals with weapons of any kind, every offer to learn to fight.

Cor agrees on the spot. Clarus yells at him later – ”giving a gun to depressed boy with suicidal tendencies, Cor, what the _fuck_ were you thinking!” – but it doesn't take long for the heat to die. Prompto doesn't want to learn to shoot, or to fight, nor does the wish to possess a weapon of his own; he simply wants to make friends with a fear that has haunted him for most of his teenage years.

* * *

The day comes at the beginning of October, before the cemetery visits and the birthday party. Cor has reserved the small shooting range just for this purpose; the door is locked when they show up, and there's no-one inside to cast prying eyes on the traumatized teenager fumbling nervously with his bracelets.

The last year of high school was a good one for Prompto. Going to prom healed some wounds, and graduating fixed a few others. Cor figures that's where this all stems from, this seemingly sudden need to deal with the past. The time is finally right.

”Let me know if you feel a panic attack coming on, okay?” Cor says while he works the locks on the first gun safe. Prompto nods but doesn't meet his eyes; even after everything else that's happened during the past four years, the therapy and the cutting and the suicide attempts, this is still a sore issue. Unexpected gunshots are a trigger, but so is the smell of gun powder.

Cor removes a single revolver from the safe and locks it up once more. He checks the cylinder to be sure – empty, as it's supposed to be – and lays the gun down on the table, metal clacking against metal despite his attempts to keep quiet in the echoing hall. Prompto is slow to move, eyes wary and mouth pinched in grim determination, but eventually he reaches for the revolver and takes it in his hands. He studies it, tests the weight in one hand and then the other, then moves his hand in an attempt to hold it up, to take aim with some imaginary target.

He's nervous, agitated, but not panicking. Cor eyes him for a moment longer before turning away in an attempt to give Prompto some privacy.

Cor stares at the wall for a while, reads posters about gun safety and rules about storage. A few minutes pass and when he glances at Prompto, he sees him holding the gun waist-level with both hands. He jerks his chin towards the targets on the far wall and asks, ”Can I?” to which Cor replies, ”Of course.”

The bullets are all in a separate cabinet but Cor knows the contents well enough to not struggle with finding the correct make. He takes a single bullet, holds it in his palm while snapping the locks shut; Prompto looks away when he hands the gun over. Loading the revolver takes only a moment but Cor makes a show out of inserting the lone bullet, makes sure that Prompto knows it's just the one.

”Come here,” he says and leads Prompto to one of the lanes. The targets are the old-fashioned red-and-white circles instead of the vaguely human-shaped cutouts the Crownsguard usually uses in training; Cor replaced them personally the previous evening.

Prompto is silent when Cor goes over the parts of the gun and shows him the correct shooting position. A wry laugh escapes his lips but Cor pays it little attention, instead simply handing out a pair of earmuffs and protective glasses before stepping back.

For a while, Cor thinks Prompto isn't going to go through with this, but then he lifts up the revolver – slow, but steady and controlled – and takes aim. His body falls into a proper position almost naturally and a thought passes Cor's mind, a brief image of a _what-if_ scenario, but he ignores it and focuses on Prompto instead. The bullet hits the target sheet, an inch or so outside the largest circle; Cor saw Prompto's body jerk at the last possible moment, pulling the gun up too early. Still, it's not a bad shot and carries the promise of so much more, a promise crushed by the shake of Prompto's shoulders and the trembling hands still holding the gun in position.

Slowly, Cor closes the three steps separating their bodies and rests one hand on Prompto's shoulder to signal he's there. He takes the gun from Prompto's hands, then removes the glasses and the earmuffs and lays them all down on the table. Prompto twists in his arms and buries his face in his chest.

”You good?” Cor asks, unsure if Prompto's simply agitated or in the first stages of a panic attack. ”Do you want your pills? Or should we leave?”

Prompto shakes his head against Cor's shoulder but doesn't answer. His fingers tremble where he's clinging to Cor's jacket, and though he sniffles, gasps for air, his eyes remain dry and tearless. ”I don't know what I'm doing,” he admits eventually, tone mournful as he begs for – help, Cor supposes, because it's _always_ help that Prompto needs, even if he won't admit to it. ”Everything's – everything's just – _wrong_!”

Releasing a long, tired sigh, Cor digs his palms against Prompto's back, feeling for quivering shoulder blades under the thick, worn hoodie that's starting to fray in more than one spot. Its color has faded to a dark gray instead of the old midnight black, and the emblem at the front has all but worn off, but it's still clear as day who it used to belong to.

”That's alright,” Cor says softly. Prompto huffs – a half-assed attempt at laughter, a choking sob, who knows – and tucks his head right under Cor's chin. ”That's alright, son, we've got enough time to figure everything out.”

Another stuttery breath. ”I just – I don't – I'm,” Prompto tries before cutting himself off entirely. He's still and quiet, the violent shake of his body displaced by a vibration that feels like electricity in Cor's embrace, and Cor doesn't know if he's managing or not.

”That's fine, we've got time,” he repeats, carefully pushing Prompto back so he can get a look at his face. His skin is pale, his eyes wide and almost dead, but his breaths come at regular enough intervals and he appears conscious enough. _Not a panic attack_ , Cor thinks, relieved. ”Do you want to leave?”

Prompto draws back, hesitates. He touches his face in a nervous tick, then recoils when the sleeve of his hoodie brushes his chin. The room reeked of old gun powder before they even walked in but the leftover smoke from Prompto's shot still hangs in the air like a cloud; Cor had almost forgotten about it, too familiar with the scent to notice it.

”Yeah,” Prompto answers eventually, nervous, skittish, ready to bolt. ”Yeah, let's – let's just go.”

Cor nods and gives Prompto's shoulder a squeeze. ”That's fine. Can you wait a moment so I can put these away, or do you need to leave right away?”

”I can wait,” Prompto mumbles, shaking his head. He glances at Cor through his eyelashes, then pushes his body close for one, quick embrace, before stepping back once more. He stands huddled into himself and Cor can only watch him for a moment, a very familiar, old, tired fear _still_ settling into the pit of his stomach, but Prompto is – if not _entirely_ okay, then _almost_ , and they've all long since learned that _almost okay_ has to be good enough.

Putting away the equipment takes almost no time at all. Cor is too familiar with the shooting range not to know where everything goes, the sequence of opening and closing lockers coming to him almost automatically even if he keeps on glancing at Prompto every few seconds.

”Alright, time to go,” he says when he's done, turning to Prompto with a soft smile. As soon as Cor lifts his right arm up, Prompto surges forward, snuggling against his side once more as they make their way out of the training halls and the Citadel at large.

”Wanna get some ice cream?” Cor asks just before they reach his car. Next to him, Prompto startles, laughs before seeming to realize that Cor is serious.

”It's October!” he cries out, slipping away from Cor just to stare at him with an incredulous expression. ”We'll have night frost any day now!”

”Yes, but today's still warm enough,” Cor agrees with an easy grin. He unlocks the car doors and rounds it, smirking over the roof. ”Also, consider this: a vanilla sundae with apples and hot caramel sauce.”

Prompto pauses, hands crossed across his chest and a massive pout on his lips. They both know he's about to agree to Cor's suggestion; Cor sees in the soft tremble of held-back laughter, the way the crinkles by Prompto's eyes continue to deepen and deepen until he bursts out in giggles. Huffing a laugh of his own, Cor smacks the roof of his car twice and gets in, trusting Prompto to follow.

It's October. Things aren't fully okay – they never will be, not with Prompto – but the sun hangs low in the sky and paints the world a golden orange, shines warm and bright through the cooling air. The inside of the car is on the nicer side of toasty, the dark seats a spring of warmth so delectable Cor feels like he's about to melt against the back rest. Next to him, Prompto's shoulders shake while he hides his face in his hands, and Cor would think he was crying if not for the way the corner of his lips keeps on twitching upwards.

”You're so _dumb_ ,” Prompto smiles into his palms. Guffawing, Cor bumps his elbow against Prompto's ribcage and puts the car on reverse.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it! <3
> 
> I'm @missymoth at tumblr.


End file.
